At Wit's End

My insomnia has worn me thin, when I get out of bed I know not where to begin. No purpose, no income, no motivation, hence forth I am consumed by this damnation. Ativan, Ambien to help cope, where then is my self to hope? Spontaneous anguish found in a drawer, absorbing the pain from the past in horror. There is but one person who gives me peace, I can speak from what little I have left from my soul to her, as all my anguish seems to cease. There is so much more that I want from her, yet cherish the friendship, all my feelings transfer. I feel lost in these long hours of darkness, At wit's end, sipping bourbon, my misery becoming noxious.